


Tube of Red

by frankie_felony (dextrosinistral)



Series: Some Secrets Are Prettier Than Others [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Makeover by Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 06:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dextrosinistral/pseuds/frankie_felony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Agent Coulson, surely you know better than to put time limits on art?"</p><p>Clint's hands are skilled at more than just archery.</p><p> </p><p>Post-movie, mildly spoilery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tube of Red

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by a twitter discussion in which candesgirl, mikes_grrl and I were flailing over Jeremy Renner having been a make-up artist, and I suddenly decided that I wanted to see fic in which Clint puts make-up on Phil. My cohorts, naturally, enabled me. I haven't written any fic in three years, and I was half terrified when I started, but in the end? TOTALLY worth it.

"Are you—"  
  
"Shut up, you'll see soon enough." He watches as sure hands pick up a brush that, to Phil, looks exactly the same as the one he just set down. "Now close your eyes for a minute."  
  
Phil closes his eyes, wishes he could see the expression on Clint's face as he works. He wonders if it's anything like the way he looks on missions, focused and intense.  
  
He feels the tickle of the brush on his skin, a huff of warm breath on his cheek, suppresses the urge to _look_. When Clint pauses, he tries again, "Can I look yet?" (He's pretty sure they both know he's not asking about his face this time.)  
  
"In about half a minute, all right?" Clint sounds almost – but not quite – annoyed. He's probably trying not to laugh. More brush strokes, and the sound of something being placed back where it came from, "Look up. I'm almost done."  
  
Phil does as he's told and is rewarded with a glimpse of Clint's mouth, bottom lip pulled between his teeth, definitely trying not to laugh. It's so _different_ from the way he looks on assignments, yet so similar, but before Phil can think about it further there's something coming right at his eye. But it's in Clint's hand, and he still trusts Clint with just about anything, even after the incident, and it's not like he's never been poked in the eye.  
  
He feels Clint's thumb just above his eye, pulling the lid back a bit to make a line, then another; after a moment longer, Clint leans back on his heels and surveys his work, smiling again. "I've been at your mercy for the last ten minutes, Barton; surely it doesn't take that long to finish your work." He puts on his authoritative tone, too aware that it doesn't have quite the impact it needs because he _voluntarily_ let Clint do this.  
  
Clint clicks his tongue, "Agent Coulson, surely you know better than to put time limits on art?" He grins at him, turns away for a minute. "It's too bad you won't let me put lipstick on, I have this great shade of red... "  
  
He levels him with a look, "Turning me into one of your painted ladies wasn't part of the deal, and you know it."  
  
Clint mimes that he's been shot. "You cut me deep, sir. I haven't been in the company of any... 'painted ladies' in a long time and you know it." He waggles his fingers in the air as he says it, though, turns back to Phil and gives him one more look. "You're still missing a little colour." He grabs a large brush, swirls it in a pinkish powder, shakes it off, and grins. "Now smile for me. Big grin, teeth and all."  
  
Phil thinks Clint is secretly getting off on ordering him around, but he complies anyway, lets Clint finish what he's doing, and then grinds his teeth a little. "Are you finished _now_?"  
  
"You're so impatient." Clint puts his supplies away extra-slowly, just to spite them both, and then turns back to look at him. "Okay. Now you can look."  
  
Phil turns to face the mirror and just stares for what feels like an eternity, judging by Clint's grin turning from _pleased-with-my-work_ to shit-eating. "I look… normal. Like before." He's not quite sure how to say it, but apparently Clint doesn't need the explanation.  
  
"I _told you_!" Clint can't keep the triumph out of his voice. "You didn't believe me when I said I could help with that exhausted look you've been wearing, and now you owe me a nice dinner and three nights of really great sex in places of my choosing!"  
  
"You haven't passed the test yet, Clint, and I never agreed to those terms." He leaves the bathroom, waiting a step for Clint to follow, so they can meet up with the rest of the Avengers and see if Clint's work stands up to their scrutiny. (Clint had suggested they visit Director Fury, but Phil is _not_ giving that man any possible reason to give him shit for anything. Not after he faked his own death, and not until he's sure that he just looks like himself, not like Clint painted him up.)  
  
Clint is practically _vibrating_ beside him as they step into the living room at Stark Tower where everyone else is gathered, waiting. He goes to stand beside Natasha, exchanging a short, whispered conversation while everyone else just looks at him for a moment.  
  
Steve is the first to say anything, "Agent Coulson, we thought you were—"  
  
"Dead, yes, not so much, clearly. Anything else about that is above your pay grade. All of you, and if any one of you attempts to circumvent the security measures, I _will_ know. Trust me, now is _not_ a good time to get on my bad side." He straightens a little, looks each of them dead in the eye, except for Steve because he's sure that Capt. Rogers isn't going to ignore the chain of command; he's a good soldier, after all.  
  
"Well, Agent," Tony breaks the minutes-long silence that follows, "you're looking awfully well. You sure you died? Almost died, faked your own death, or was that even you?"  
  
At this point, Clint can't stop himself anymore. "I. Told. You. So!" he crows, dancing in a tiny circle, and Phil wants to groan, to wipe the stupid smirk off of Barton's face, before it fully sinks in that he _lost this bet_. Who would have guessed that Agent Barton was a genius with an airbrush and mascara? (Phil's willing to guess no one else in the room, except for maybe Natasha, but he sort of suspects that Clint has been giving her make-up tips for years. Not that he would ever tell anyone.)  
  
Phil shakes his head. "I'll be in with your next assignment tomorrow. Be prepared." And he leaves, goes back to his apartment, knowing that Clint will make his way there eventually. On the way, he thinks about that shade of red Clint mentioned, wonders what it would look like on him. Maybe he'll be able to talk Clint into... It's the least he can do, after making Phil agree to such uncertain terms.  
  
About half an hour later, there's a soft knock on his window. Phil opens it, gives Clint a _look_ , sits back down in his chair. Clint follows, watches him for a long moment, then kneels on the floor in front of him. "Why are you upset that I was right?" His voice is quiet, different from the swagger he wears with the others. Phil wonders which is closer to the real Clint, then decides it doesn't matter.  
  
"I'm not upset," he tries to argue, but this time, it's Clint's turn to raise an eyebrow and silence him with that look.  
  
"Well, you definitely weren't _happy_ about it, so tell me what to do to make it up to you." He rocks back on his heels, looking up to meet his eyes.  
  
Phil already knows his answer, can't stop the words tumbling from his lips before he can stop himself: "Your work."  
  
Clint looks startled, for a moment, then grins. "You asking to see one of my painted ladies?" He can't help himself; the last time anyone watched him work on himself, it was Natasha, and he was teaching her.  
  
"No, Clint, I'm _telling_ you. Go get your supplies. I'll be there soon."  
  
Clint can try to hide his smile, but Phil still sees it in his eyes. He stands up, heads for the bathroom, shucking his shirt and shaking his hips just for Phil's benefit. Phil just watches, then gets up to follow.  
  
By the time he gets to the bathroom, Clint is standing in front of the sink, drawing a thin black line, his hands impossibly large around the brush, and impossibly still. Phil wants to touch him, but waits, and watches. "You started without me."  
  
Clint waits until he's finished with the line, sets the brush down, and meets Phil's eyes in the mirror. "But I saved the best part for last," he murmurs, his hands still moving. "Now stop looking at me and _watch_."  
  
Phil looks from the mirror to Clint, watches him select a brush and a tube of red, just a drop, and closes his eyes for just a second to steady himself. When he opens them again, Clint is looking at him, waiting for him.  
  
It's so _different_ , watching those sure hands make sure strokes, painting that mouth a wicked scarlet, so similar yet so unlike his archery. Phil reaches out, rests a hand on the small of Clint's back, watches him tense ever-so-slightly before he sets the brush down, turns. "Phil… " He inhales, opens and closes his mouth, exhales slowly.  
  
He licks his lips, transfixed for a moment. " _Clint_." He steps back, turns and leaves the bathroom, not looking back to see if Clint is following him down the hall. Once he gets to his bed, he sits, steadying himself.  
  
The bed creaks as Clint settles down beside him. There's a long stretch of silence; Phil can feel Clint's eyes on him, waiting for instruction. He clears his throat, and pushes Clint back on the bed, lying beside him and curling his fingers into his hips. Clint groans softly, pressing closer to him, fingers shaking as he works at buttons, helps Phil out of his shirt.  
  
Phil leans forward, kisses Clint, not caring if he ends up in that lipstick himself, making Clint's earlier threat come true. Clint sighs softly, licking at his lips and into his mouth, fumbling at their trousers until they're both naked on the comforter, rocking against each other. Clint trails kisses down Phil's neck, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, _now you're wearing my lipstick_ , and Phil chooses to ignore it – for now.  
  
When they've finished, Clint curls up close to Phil, starts to say something. Phil kisses him softly, shakes his head. Clint sighs and gets up, returning soon with a damp cloth. He reaches for Phil's neck, but Phil takes the cloth, cleans them up, and turns down the sheet.  
  
As they start to drift off, Clint smiles. "Maybe next time, I'll convince you."  
  
Phil laughs, loud in the darkness. "Not likely, Barton. Go to sleep; tomorrow's a big day."


End file.
